The Catch Us If You Can Affair
by GM
Summary: A Spy verses Spy contest turns perilous for Illya and Napoleon


****

**THE**

CATCH US IF YOU CAN 

**AFFAIR**

by

gm

editing by AS

**Prologue **

** "You asked for it!"**

**March 1968**

"Waverly assured me he would send the best!"  

Chief of Station Wills Anders closed within inches of the Chief Enforcement Officer from headquarters.  The tall, broad Texan had several inches in both directions over Napoleon Solo, but the younger, ranking agent did not flinch at the attack.  The cool disapproval exuding from the confident interloper seemed to anger the older man as he assessed the composed, frosty expression in the narrowed brown eyes.

"I'd say you've fallen far from the mark!"  The piece of paper crumpled in his right hand was mercilessly crunched into a tight ball and thrown at Solo.

The younger man flinched, but stood his ground.  Illya Kuryakin intervened, his shoulder touching his partner's as he became a partial barrier between the men.  "We've done our best.  It's only been two days --"

"And two more dead agents!" Anders shouted, his angry voice seeming more suited for herding longhorns rather than dealing with international spies.  His gaze never leaving Solo's, he spat out, "You were supposed to save lives!"

"Our job isn't done, yet, Mr. Anders."  Keeping his expression fixed at neutral, he delivered his declaration as a steel-edged certainty.  "We regret the loss of your personnel, but we are closing in on the Trasks --"

"They are lunatics!  They've decimated my station!  Not personnel, not double-oh-sevens!  They are people I work with every day!  They are my friends and that murderous beast, Trask, is picking them off one by one!  These are my friend's, Mister Solo!  Do you have any idea what that means?"

Grinding his teeth to not blurt out a nasty, rebuking insult, he clenched his fists to keep from throttling this insubordinate man. Napoleon felt -- and sensed -- Kuryakin stiffen and shift slightly as if to go after the man.  With a subtle brush against his friend's arm, he signaled that he could handle it.

He would not address the rhetorical affront about knowing what it meant to lose a friend.  As Chief Enforcement Officer for North America, he knew all too well the hurt when one of his agents didn't come back.  He felt the pain keenly.  Every day he lived with the threat that it would be personal one day.  Too often he had been near to understanding that ultimate pain.  Even the close calls were agony.   The loss he feared weighed on him every time Illya took on an assignment.  It was the miserable part of his leadership position, and the unfortunate danger inherent with the profession he had chosen.

"As I said," he reiterated tightly, his tone frosty with authority and resolve.  "We have a lead.  We are leaving now to check it out.  I think we're close to finding the Trasks."

"Just don't bring them back alive."  Anders spun around and left the room.  

Napoleon released a sigh and continued to stare at the door.

"You're doing everything --"

"He's right.  We haven't stopped them yet."

"We will, Napoleon."  He hesitated, moving closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm.  "You mustn't take it personally.  He is upset."

"I do take it personally, Illya.  Remember your John Donne."

"_'Every man's death diminishes me.'_ "

" _'No__ man is an island.' "  _

Especially true when he considered his partnership.  "It's worse when we know them, but they're all part of us."  He looked at the worried blue eyes clinging to him.  Aware that things could be infinitely worse before this ugly business was over.  The Trasks had targeted UNCLE agents.  As long as they didn't get the one standing next to him, he could survive this.  "I don't want them to take even one more agent."  His fervent voice nearly cracked.  From the flicker in Illya's expression he knew his friend read him completely and clearly -- all messages on all levels.  This was personal and both would do all things possible to make sure it didn't get the most personal.

Solo crouched down and picked up the crumpled paper ball.  Straightening it out, he read the scrawled message unevenly printed in blood.  It was a taunt from two of the most dangerous men Solo had ever encountered.  Li and Wu Trask were Hong Kong street punks who grew up to be notoriously evil twins running THRUSH's enforcement operations in the Far East.  Their exploits became even too grisly and dangerous for THRUSH and the fraternal twins had been ousted.  Not before leaving a trail of dead THRUSH supervisors behind.  

The misguided head of UNCLE stationed in Hong Kong tried to recruit the young men.  They found the Chief's head atop the mast of a Chinese junk floating in the harbor.  They never found the rest of the body.  The brother's were known for their prowess with Oriental fighting swords and knives.  Each carried various weaponry used to mutilate, behead or dismember depending on their whim at the time of attack.

Since then the Trasks had led UNCLE across the globe for months.  Bodies of UNCLE agents accumulated along with local enforcement agencies, Interpol, CIA  and MI6.  Now, with each body, or with each crime (they kept themselves in lucre by robbing banks, kidnappings, extortion -- anything that they could conceive of), they left a challenge:

catch us if you can

For every agency that felt a loss, there was a quest to catch the brothers.  Napoleon would stop short of calling it a vendetta, but that was what it was.  Most, like Anders, took it personally.  Solo did, too.  Five agents killed in North America in the last month.  Two dismembered, two beheaded, one eviscerated.  Three of them were from the Seattle Station.  That made it personal for Anders.  

As soon as the first taunting note was received at the beginning of the week, Solo and Kuryakin had been dispatched here to the Northwest to track the Trasks.  The grisly and needless murders sickened Napoleon, and he sympathized with Anders emotions, but he needed to keep a cool head to beat these guys at their own mind games.  There was no one better to pit against them than him and his partner, who had a great track-record at outwitting many foes.  This game of hide and seek had become deadly.  Two more agents lost, but through detective work and some analytical thinking on Illya's part, they were close.  He knew they were.  

"We should prepare," Illya suggested and took the note from his partner, folding it away in a pocket.

"Thanks."

"For?"

Patting his shoulder, Napoleon favored him with a wry wink.  "Back up.  The not-so-subtle Kuryakin threat.  He's twice your size."

"You know my greatest advantage is my deceptive appearance."

"Yes," he nodded slowly.  "When someone makes you angry, they never know what hit them until after they're on the floor."  He straightened his shoulders and looked his friend in the eyes, his demeanor sobering.  "I have a feeling we're going to need all our skills today."

"The Trasks are no match for our cunning," he declared confidently.  "Their reign of terror ends here."

***

Wearing ski masks, coats and gloves, they were as protected as possible from the frosty night air.  Lying in the damp dirt on a hillside overlooking a scenic vale, Solo set down his binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

"Only ten more minutes.  You don't think we miscalculated?"

"No," his partner replied without hesitation or doubt, interrupting humming.  "We are right."

Solo returned to staring through the field glasses.  "Conviction - one of your best traits, Illya.  What are you humming?"

"You don't recognize it?"

"No."

"Subtlety is lost on you, my friend."  He hummed a few more bars.  "Well?"

Shrugging, Napoleon glanced at him.  "I give up."

"Dave Clark Five."  On the American's blank look, he scowled.  "_Catch Us If You Can," he surrendered glumly. _

"Are you serious?"

"You have no ear for music."

"Let me guess.  This group has long hair and British accents?"

"Of course.  _'Here they come again, hmm.  Catch us if you can, hmm.'_ "  His glower deepened.  "You make it so difficult to play musical trivia by being musically starved."

"Sinatra, Martin, Bennett, Mathis, Getz.  I don't live in a cultural wasteland, you know."  

He returned to watching the mineral company.   Raw gems were to be shipped from this clearinghouse today.  The street value would be worth millions after cutting and processing the various stones.  They were certain this quiet, unassuming, but monetarily important little business in the mountains outside of Vancouver BC was the target of the Trasks.  

In a few minutes, the gems would be leaving in an armored car.  Solo was betting they would strike here at the plant before the gems entered the security of the truck.  Illya voted they would attack en route.  The truck pulled into the secured grounds and the agents tensed, watching every detail.  The transfer went smoothly and within moments the truck was on its way.  The partners sprinted to their jeep and Kuryakin raced through the brush to connect with the small road leading to the freeway.  

When the armored truck was in sight, he slowed, following at a safe distance.  Only a few miles to go on the narrow, two-lane highway, then they would be on the freeway.   Grudgingly, Solo admitted this was a good spot for an ambush.  Sheer drop to the left where the mountain sloped down.  High sides on the right where the road cut into the mountain.

As they followed, they watched in horror as a flatbed truck tore down the mountain around a blind curve of the road, and smacked into the armored car, pushing it off the road and down the ravine.  Illya slammed on the brakes and the jeep skidded sideways, nearly clipping the rear of the empty logging truck.  As they skidded in 360-degree turns, they felt and heard the distinctive pluck of bullets around them.

The jeep rocked to a stop tilted against the mountain on the passenger side.  Solo unbuckled his and Illya's seat belts and moved before they finished jolting.  Two blurred figures in black raced after the truck, shooting at the jeep.  He fired back, slipping out as Illya dropped to the pavement.

Amid the choking dust, coughing, gunshots, the grinding of the truck's downward plunge, his senses alerted him on other levels.  Almost instinctively -- a sense/hearing -- he was aware of Illya's moan as he hit the ground.  Scrambling over he dragged his partner behind the jeep as both of them shot at the disappearing Trasks racing after the armored truck.  

"I told you so," Illya snapped, groaning as he leaned against the wheel.

"It hurts to be so correct," Solo grimaced as he saw dark red fluid spreading across Kuryakin's black sweater at the top of the right shoulder.  "How bad?"

The arm was shaking and the Walther dropped from his hand.  "I think my muscles are not working properly," he hissed in pain.  "And maybe worse."

Quickly assessing, Solo determined the bullet went through the top of the shoulder, probably chipping or breaking the shoulder blade and leaving two bleeding holes.  "Well, we've got trouble with a capital **T**.  You stay here.  No doubt the Trasks have a vehicle waiting down the hill."

Before he could sprint away, Illya grabbed his shirt.  "I'm coming --"

"You're staying."

Defiantly, the Russian seized his pistol with his left hand.  "Ambidextrous."

Frowning, Solo ripped open Illya's sweater at the tear.  Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he carefully tucked it on the bleeding wounds.  Finally, he nodded with a sigh, "Back me up then, but be careful, please."

"Always."

Solo ran across the road and slide down the mountain.  Concentrating on keeping his footing in the muddy, thickly overgrown forest ground, he occasionally glanced back to keep an eye on his friend.  Illya was slowly making his way down.  Napoleon couldn't afford to wait, but on a few occasions backtracked to assist his injured friend.  Then he would dash ahead and scramble through the underbrush swiftly, hoping to catch their prey before the evil brothers fled.

Li, stocky and flat-faced, with broad shoulders tucked tightly in a coat, had just disappeared behind the front of the truck.  Wu labored at the back, dragging bags out of the mangled vehicle.  The renegades were murderers.  They had nearly killed Illya and him.  Still, Napoleon's code of ethics forced him to take a stand and issue a fair warning.

"Hold it right there, Wu.  Put your hands up and back away."

The flash of silver registered at the same instant Napoleon ducked, feeling the back of his sweater rip as he dove for cover as bullets sprayed around him.  Popping off several shots at Wu, who had scurried into a thicket of trees, and at Li, toward the front of the truck, he glanced back.  There was no sign of Illya.  

Napoleon stepped silently to the right and gasped when a shiny blade swept out of nowhere, slicing his arm, knocking the pistol from his hand.  A sword plunging into the tree next to him.  Just in time, he caught Wu flying in for a tackle.  They tumbled into the mud, slamming against a tree.  There was no time to search for his pistol.

"Napoleon, move!"

Illya stood just a few feet away, unwilling to shoot while the combatants were tangled together.  Incapable of using his numb, injured arm, Solo was losing the fight and Kuryakin was impatient to help his friend.  Wu slammed Napoleon against the tree and throttled his throat.  

Unable to get a clear shot, Illya tucked away the Walther and reached for the sword imbedded in the wood.  

Caught in Wu's grip, Napoleon was being strangled.  Illya came from behind, swung around and with a mighty thrust skewered Wu, sending the body into the nearest tree, impaling the Oriental like a trophy on a wall.  

A scream echoed in the still woods.  

"No!"

Another horrendous screech.

"WU!"

The area rained bullets and Illya grabbed Solo, throwing them into the thick brush.  

A sobbing wrench sounded like a death-throe, echoing through the trees.   "I -- will -- kill -- you for this!"

The forest splintered with the reverberation of agony, then with the murderous spray of bullets as they pinged into trees and plowed into bushes.  Solo skidded through the underbrush searching for his weapon.  Finally retrieving it, he joined his partner and returned fire.  

Illya's slide popped back and he switched clips awkwardly with one hand as Solo emptied his pistol, clumsily reloading, with limited use of his hand.  In the silence, they waited, watching the forest, occasionally glancing at each other.  Solo checked his friend's shoulder, which was still bleeding, the dark sweater now soppy with dark red.

Napoleon motioned that he was going to walk to the right.  Touching Illya's chest, he indicated the wounded agent should rest.  Illya gave a nod and leaned against the tree, keeping watch on his partner's progress.  Solo crept away, circling around to get a view at the front of the truck.  No sign of Li.  Down the hill he heard a car engine and saw a green truck tearing away in a billow of dust.

Just to be on the safe side he circumspectly checked the area, finally determining it was clear.  Then he returned to the accident scene.  Illya was there checking the truck.  He reported that the escaping Li managed to get away with part of the shipment of gems.

"More importantly, Wu is dead."

"Yes, I gathered that."  He slowly trudged over to observe the body impaled on the tree.

"So did Li."

Solo grimaced.  "Well, I'm afraid that won't be the last we'll see of Mr. Li."  Suddenly drained, he took Illya by the arm and led him to a nearby log.  "Sit.  Did you call for back up?"

"On the way."

Leaning against the nearest tree, Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned his head back, cradling his bleeding arm.  "You don't look so good."

"I'll be fine."  His next words were rife with concern.  "You don't look so good, either."

"Wu didn't go down easy."

"They never do."  He _tutted_ sympathetically, irritated.  "I think you will win for the most-stitches-contest this time around," he drolly informed, just a hint of regret intermingled with the long-suffering sigh.

"Yours is worse."

"Yours is a deeper gash.  Mine can just be sewn up."

"Swell," he sighed with equal weariness of body and soul.  "I just love winning."

Illya joined him sitting against the tree.  Their heads met in mutual exhaustion.  "Half winning.  Only one brother is dead.  Li will not forget this."

"Well, they did ask for it," Solo concluded, closing his eyes.

**I**

**"Catch me if you can."**

"Jeez, Kuryakin, don't you ever take a day off?"

"I am anxious to catch Trask."

"He's just another THRUSH.  You sound like it's personal."

Touching the sling on his arm, Kuryakin glared at Agent Sands.  Smoothly intervening, Solo glibly stepped between his partner and the other two agents in the hospital room.  There was no need to turn this into a turf war.  Neither was it necessary to define Illya's reasoning about why Trask's apprehension was so personally important.  He had a good idea why the Russian was in a sour, guarded mood.  No reason to enlighten the others.

"You know how Illya hates hospitals," he offered blandly.  Barely brushing eye contact with his partner, he moved closer to Richardson and Sands.  "He hates losing THRUSH agents who put him here even worse.  He's just in a bad humor."  His smile was thin, conciliatory and shallow.  "Let's concentrate on the issue at hand.  When you think you've got a solid lead on Trask, call me.  I'd like to be in on the kill."

Carl Richardson, a tall, broad, imposing young man originally from Jamaica, gave him a curt nod.  Tyson Sands, a slighter, thinner agent who's piercing sky-blue eyes seemed to penetrate right through Napoleon, lightened his expression.  They were a formidable team.  Competitive in every aspect of life, Napoleon felt they were always figuratively nipping at his heels, trying to prove they were better than him and Illya.  It was the nature of men and women who lived for danger that they be naturally aggressive.  Not that Section Two had any overt rivalry going, but it was no secret that they would like to be hailed as Section Two's top team.  Napoleon's ego would never allow it, but neither would he ever admit that in the back of his mind he always enjoyed besting his teammates.

With both he and Illya injured – an all too common occurrence – Richardson and Sands were taking over lead on the Trask hunt.  In this case, he was glad for the assist.  Illya's cracked shoulder blade and muscle damage would put him out of the field for some time.  

Napoleon's arm had twelve stitches thanks to Wu Trask's sword, and five stitched in his back for the slice made by Wu's ninja throwing star.  So action games were not on his agenda for a while.  He would be out there himself, but the blood loss from his laceration left him weak enough to acquiesce to a few days on the sidelines.

"We'll be in touch," Richardson smiled as he headed for the door.  

"Does this make three times this year, Napoleon?"

"Who's counting?" Illya responded for his partner.

Napoleon just offered a sour expression to Sands.

"See you back at the ranch," Sands smiled and slipped out of the room.

"Their imaginary competition is ridiculous, Napoleon."

"Childish," he agreed readily.

"Then why do you allow it to bother you?"

"I don't," he countered too quickly.  Not wanting to see a smug, knowing look from his partner, Solo moved to the window.  "Neither one of us is in any shape to go up against Trask.  As long as he's behind bars, or dead, I don't really care who catches him."

"Hmm," was the Russian's dubious lack of agreement.  "Remember what he promised."

Ah, he suspected that was why Illya was taking this personally.  Not to mention the injuries.  Illya didn't forgive enemies for putting either of them in the hospital.  He liked violent threats against them even less.

"I remember."  Solo settled carefully into a chair.  It was going to be a very uncomfortable night.  "That's why I thought I'd hang out here for a while.  I'll go scrounge a deck of cards after dinner.  Between the two of us, we can just manage to shuffle.  Almost.  Maybe."

"Chief Anders will not assign an agent –"

"There are no agents left," Solo sighed.  "And I don't trust your health to the local Mounties.  They are still reeling from all the murders around here."

Illya closed his eyes and snuggled into the pillow.  "Careful.  Li Trask is after both of us."

"Togetherness, that's what partnership is all about," Napoleon offered, smiling tightly  as he watched his friend slip from drowsiness to sleep almost instantly.

The humor faded instantly as he thought of Trask's promised revenge.  There was nothing funny about being targeted by a deranged assassin.  Neither did he like the thought of other agents – albeit talented colleagues – out there taking care of their vitally important mission.  This was personal to both him and Illya.  It could mean their lives, and he was feeling particularly vulnerable with both of them wounded and in the hospital.  Well, soon enough Richardson and Sands would bag Trask.  And at the end of the week he and Illya would be flying back to New York.  Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, he reasoned either of those outcomes would just not be soon enough.

***

The drone of voices blurred in his mind.  It happened often – awakening from drugs or unconsciousness and uncertain about his place or status.  That one of the voices was easily recognizable as his partner's washed him with a sense of peace and security.  Whatever was happening, Napoleon was not stressed.  Everything was okay.  His partner was taking care of him.  

Who was taking care of his partner? His dulled mind wondered.  Napoleon was not in immediate danger, but there was a threat out there that he couldn't quite remember. But Solo seemed unfazed.  The others – Richardson and Sands – were unstressed as well.  Everything was all right.  They were joking with his partner?  Slipping back into an uneasy doze, he remembered the first time he met Carl Richardson and Ty Sands – a recollection not so pleasant:

------------------------------------------------

New York 

_Spring 1963_

_"The guy is a headhunter. I'm telling you, Ty, we're done for."_

_Slipping his thin frame into the lift just before the automatic doors closed, Illya Kuryakin breathed a covert sigh of relief.  His first day in UNCLE HQ New York, he did not want to be late.  It was not his fault, of course, that traffic was horrendous because of an accident.  The head of UNCLE North American would not be impressed by that excuse, however._

_"Come on, Carl, you really think he's that ruthless?"_

_"Deadly.  Any agent not measuring up to his perfect standards is history in this office."_

_There was no way to not eavesdrop in an elevator.  Kuryakin tried to politely SEEM to not be interested.  Who were these two agents talking about?  A new enemy?  Ty, the thin man with blazing blue eyes and thinning red hair, seemed calm.  The bulky, broad, muscled Carl seemed tense, his dark face agitated.  _

_"All I know is what I heard from the Section Two secretary Annie.  The Emperor is pushing agent Rice out of his number two slot.  To get to the top of Enforcement, the Emperor's gone through five partners this year alone."_

_"Five?  Why do you keep count?  You're too competitive with him.  I think YOU wanted to be promoted."_

_"Okay, yeah, I'm steamed about his promotion.  But he's using every one of those bodies to climb up to the top slot as Chief Enforcement Officer.  Old __Milton__ better watch his back."_

_"Come on, Ty --"_

_"And he's looking for a partner to go with him on this Canadian case.  I'm telling you, if Waverly asks I'm gonna tell him I won't go with the Emperor.  He's like his name, a loner, and lets his team mates catch the bullets for him."_

_"I heard Waverly was bringing in a new agent from __Europe__.  Maybe he'll be the new victim."_

_"Then we better get the name and address of where to send flowers."_

_The lift stopped and Kuryakin exited first since it was the level where he was supposed to meet with the aforementioned Agent Milton -- the Chief Enforcement agent for Section Two.  _

_Just transferring in from __Europe__, Kuryakin was a little nervous about coming to the __United States__ and working with Americans.  As soon as they learned he was a Russian they would be suspicious and distrustful.  Even though they were all agents, they wouldn't be able to help themselves.  He had experienced a mild form of the prejudice in __England__, but expected it ten-fold here._

_Now added to the mix were intense office politics.  There had been too many such games in __Russia__.  Many in English universities.  He never ventured into such games, but knew Americans were notorious for such trivial concerns.  To Illya, it was more important to fight the bad guys outside the walls rather than the jealous factions within any large organization.  _

-----------------------------------

Feeling secure, Kuryakin remained still, eyes closed.  When he heard the soft rustle of material and a barely audible sigh, he almost smiled, aware it was his partner faithfully remaining on vigil.  Relaxed, knowing he was not in danger, he took his time waking.

Solo, releasing himself prematurely from the hospital the day before, was not fit enough to travel back to New York with his injuries. Still not completely fit, Napoleon was in and out of the local RCMP offices coordinating the hunt for Trask.  Curiosity now overpowering comfort, Kuryakin opened his eyes.  

His partner was standing by the window, gazing out at a cold, bleak sky.  Close clouds were dark with the promise of heavy rain.  Dressed in casual slacks, open-collared plaid shirt, and sweater, there was a pensive, disturbed expression on the American that worried him.

"What's wrong?"

Solo started; turning, he smiled.  "Nothing.  How are you feeling?"

"Better.  What's wrong?"

Moving closer, Napoleon grin was sincere.  "Everything's fine.  Ty and Carl came by.  They got Trask."  He stiffly sat on the side of the bed, not bothering to disguise the soreness of his injuries.  "He's being processed.  Richardson and Sands will take him back today."  The calm assurance almost reached his eyes.  "All's well that ends well."

"And you are uneasy because?"

Scowling, Solo shook his head.  "I would feel more comfortable if I could put a bullet in Trask's dangerous head."

Illya nodded with conviction.  "Agreed."

When Richardson and Sands returned, they brought foam cartons of deli food that Solo and Kuryakin eagerly accepted.  The camaraderie was more relaxed, the edge of competition eased with the capture of the violent assassin.  Ty felt it had been too easy, and invited the top team to a real competition.

"Carl and I are doing a hide and seek next weekend.  Care to make it a team effort?"

"We're still on the injured list," Solo reminded.  "Besides, I'm not supposed to know about these games officially."

"Okay," Carl shrugged.  "Unofficially, do you want to engage in a game of wits?  Nothing physical, I promise.  We'll go easy on you guys.  We don't want you to look too bad when we cream you."

Illya's glacial expression clearly conveyed his disdain of the proposal.  "Old Russian gypsy proverb: 'First bragger doesn't stand a chance.' " 

Carl seemed confused.  

Solo offered one of his effortless smiles -- denoting danger -- even evil behind the benign façade.   "We could run rings around you two."

"But we are not interested," Illya assured sharply, with expressive finality, glaring at his partner.

Clearly challenging, Sands raised his fair eyebrows.  "Come on, everybody does it.  So, who won between you two?"

"My money's on Illya," Richardson admitted with a sly look.  "You're slick," he complimented the Russian.

Clearly stung by the slight, Napoleon frowned. 

"We've never engaged in the game," Kuryakin shot out bluntly.  "There is far too much real work to attend to without playing adolescent contests of pride."

Sands scoffed.  "It's just like tracking Trask, except for sport, and against your partner."  He shook his head.  "You're no fun, Kuryakin."  He eyed their superior.  "My money's on you, Napoleon.  Senior agent.  You have the edge with experience."

Without as much conviction, the Section Two Chief guaranteed they had far more serious matters that constantly held their attention.  When asked what they did to blow off steam, Napoleon declared he would rather play games with the many available women of his acquaintance than taking a busman's holiday with fugitive play-acting.

"It's like Survival School training only more fun," Richardson assured.  "You're pitted against your partner.  There's nothing tougher than trying to outfox someone who can read you like a book."

"No thanks," Illya firmly reiterated.

After the other team left, Solo donned a warm coat, admitting he'd feel better seeing Trask off personally.  He advised his friend to rest.  Maybe on the morrow, after his duties with the local authorities were taken care of, they could see what Vancouver had to offer. 

Not all that interested in sightseeing, Illya admitted it would be nice to get out and walk in the fresh air.  He was feeling confined even in the hotel room.  He had, after all, seen too many non-descript hotels as he had hospitals and was not fond of either.

At the door, Solo paused and gazed back at him with a speculative, bemused expression.  "So, who do you think would win?"

"What?"

"If we played agent hide-and-seek?   Who would win?"

"I will not even dignify that with a response."

"Bet you a dinner at the Russian Tea Room it would be me."

"Humph."

Retaining the little secret smile, Napoleon gave a nod and left.  Kuryakin, knowing his partner all too well, thought it a dangerous look.

**II**

**"Let the Games begin."**

From the dim light against his eyelids he knew it was still light outside, but subdued.  Faintly he could hear rain pelting the roof and windows.  In no hurry to waken he lay still and listened.  Strangely quiet.  Napoleon should have been awake by now.  Opening his eyes, he noted the room was empty.  Rolling over, his head crumpled something.  Sitting up, he read the note:

**"Catch me if you can,"**

**NS******

He's started the game! Illya raged, instantly furious.  Sometimes Napoleon was so ridiculous.  They have a few days off and he allowed other agents to goad him into this frivolous competition.  It angered the pragmatic Russian that his friend was addicted to the thrill of adventure and often sought it out in avenues aside from their risky profession.

Well, he was not going to play.  He would just ignore it.  Years of experience with Napoleon's arrogance made him an expert with his subject.  Of course, in a real contest he could track Solo blindfolded.  He knew his friend too well.  But he was not going to play the game.  It was silly. He would rather rest in preparation for his flight back east in a few days.  It also irritated him that Solo had ruined their planned time off together.  Sitting in the hotel, gazing out the window, he looked through the blurry, rain-smeared panes and simmered with irritation at the man he loved like a brother, and felt so vexed with frequently.  It had been the pattern of their partnership from the very beginning: 

----------------------------

Spring 1963

Alone in the Number One Section One's office, Kuryakin tensed when the automatic doors opened and he heard a familiar voice strained with opposition.  In mid-sentence, the self-absorbed Mr. Solo was volubly debating with the leader of UNCLE North America!

_" .__ . . not need a partner!  **Solo, I work fine ****solo, sir."**_

_Waverly strode into the circular office as if never hearing a word from the obstreperous younger man.  Solo followed, his attention on the older man, thus completely missing Kuryakin, who was standing near the window in the far corner of the room._

_"And I don't have time to train some fresh-faced kid who won't know a thing about me!"_

_For a moment, Kuryakin wanted to interrupt to save Solo and himself from embarrassment.  _

_Obviously, Napoleon had not changed his mind about partners.  Fine, neither had he, Illya insisted to himself.  So why was he so disappointed at the dashing agent's rejection?  Because Solo had made it a point to befriend him on a mission the year before?  In reality, perhaps the previous experience had been empty flattery on Solo's  part.  _

_Disgusted with himself, Illya stared at the floor, expertly covering the chagrin from his now closed expression.  When he looked up again to stare icy daggers at the back of Solo's perfectly combed hair, Kuryakin was completely under control, his face a disdainful mask of neutrality.  He had spent a lifetime perfecting this armor around himself.  True, the cunning American had briefly pierced the shielding last year.  Solo had accepted him as a new, green field agent -- accepted him as an equal.  Even respecting his opinion of a phase of the operation.  At the conclusion, expressing a hope they would work together again._

**" 'If**** you're ever in ****New York**** we'll get together," ' Solo had invited.**

_Now that Illya knew the real nature of the arrogant agent, he would not be fooled again._

_Waverly took a place in his chair at the round table.  As he charged a pipe, he barely flicked his eyes up.  "Ah, I see your new comrade has joined us."_

_Unable to help himself, Kuryakin stared at the American, daring the self-centered, brash daredevil to make a comment to his face.  Illya couldn't wait to dash him with the cold contempt of his icy eyes -- to cut him to ribbons with lashing wit . . . . _

_Turning stiffly, Solo's dark, glowering expression seemed to overshadow everything for an instant.  Then the flash of recognition.  And a smile.  Kuryakin blinked as he realized the warmth of the grin thawed the cold of Solo's features and sparked the dark eyes with the light of humor and – something akin to welcome and inclusion._

_"Illya!"__  Solo barely glanced at Waverly, then crossed the room.   His left arm was held close to his chest and he was careful not to make many movements with that side of his body.  "You don't mean Illya?"  He fondly shook hands with the startled visitor and stood next to the slighter Russian.  "You're my partner for this mission?"  He gave a pleased nod.  "Well, that's different.  Good to see you again.  Let the games begin."_

_Illya was too stunned to respond.  Eyebrows raised, he silently looked from the boss to the American.  How could he be Solo's partner?  Neither one of them wanted a partner!  They were so completely unsuited, although their South American operation the year before had been successful.  _

_The acceptance made him both wary and pleased.  Unusual reactions for him.  He wouldn't let his guard down, but Solo did seem honestly pleased to see him and glad to work together.  Still, Solo had proven to be a skilled, if flamboyant agent.  He could probably learn a few things from the American, as well as teach him a bit of humility.  And it was only one mission.  Waverly did not say anything about this being forever.  _

---------------------------

Well, Napoleon could stew in his own soup today.  Illya would allow him to be **_solo_ this time.   He could explain the game to Waverly.  Of course, tonight, when Illya was not on the trail of Solo to wherever he was, the American would call, be irritated that there was no game, and they would meet for dinner.  **

Insisting he was not engaging in the competition, Illya left the room, checked the hotel, asked questions of the maids and other employees, and tracked down Solo's departure time and his mode of transport (a cab).  Easily traceable.  He was not playing much of a game so far.  It would grow more complex, of course.  Continuing the search purely out of curiosity, he established through some phone calls that Solo had been dropped off at the bus station by the cab.  Then he caught another cab to the fishing pier, and chartered a boat.  

Napoleon was serious about the game.  He had not returned to surrender.  Of course, Illya had never really expected that.  Napoleon loved betting, loved playing against the odds and mostly, he managed to win through that incredible, miraculous commodity they had come to label _'Solo's luck'_.  But he thought because of the recent injuries, Solo would grow bored when Illya did not give chase.  Napoleon was too stubborn to give in.  Promising he would exact revenge against his partner, Illya left the cozy, if lonely hotel, and drove their rental car to the docks.

Getting the name and description of the rental boat, he drove to every marina in the area, finally finding the empty boat in a populous area of Vancouver where various restaurants were near the exclusive dock area.  Just the type of place his partner loved. 

He tracked the slippery Solo to a classy marina restaurant where soft Sinatra tunes played over the PA and well dressed professionals lunched.  The receptionist remembered Napoleon well.  The smile and dreamy eyes were memorable, she said.  He had come in to use the phone and call a cab. He had flirted with her while he waited, and gave her a tip when he left.

Ah, Napoleon, my friend, your old habits and charm are your undoing, he smiled to himself as he called the same cab company and learned where his partner had been taken.  Feeling invigorated with the challenge, he resolved if Napoleon wanted to play games, he would meet the challenge.

III 

**"Against my better judgment."******

It would never do to underestimate his friend's skills.  Illya was the best.  Except for him, of course.  And even that was a close call.  Almost a dead heat in the way they could play the game.  But, his pride allowed himself a bit of an edge.

His communicator beeped and he responded immediately.

_"How you doing so far, partner?"_

"Napoleon –"

_"Come on.  We have a few days off.  I promise I'll go easy –"_

"This is a foolish –"

_"I promise it will be fun, Illya."_  He used his most persuasive tone.  His friend was irritated, but he could win him over.  _"Come on.  You're not afraid I'll win, are you?"_

"No."

Appeal to his inquisitive, challenging nature.  That always worked.  _"Then you'll keep playing?"_

"Against my better judgment.  Where are you?"

_"You're not going to get off too easy, tovarich.  Hungry yet? If you hurry, I'll treat you to lunch.  Catch me if you can."_

He cut the connection with a sly smile.  This was going to be so fun!  There was very little he liked as much as hanging around with his partner.  Illya was a great guy.  Few had discovered the hidden value of the Russian.   Over the years, they had melded into fast friends.  Secure friends.  It had not always been that fun, of course.  He had to go through a lot of training to teach the reclusive new agent how to have a good time.  At the beginning, he felt a little sorry for Illya.  Not everyone in America was willing to openly embrace a Russian.  Not even UNCLE  agents.

------------------------

_Spring 1963_

_". . .  and I'm going to protest to Mr. Waverly about it!"_

_"Come on, Janice, this is an international organization.  And we need someone as skilled as this young man . . . . "_

_Minding his own business in the coffee line in the cafeteria, Napoleon Solo didn't want to be a third party to the conversation between the two agents he did not know.  Curious, though, about the hot debate, he was pleased that there was a conclusion before the two drifted off._

_"I know, but a Russian!  Here in __New York__!"_

_Sipping his coffee, Solo smiled behind his cup as he strolled into the corridor, heading for the top floors of headquarters.  He'd worked with a Russian once in __South America__ and found it a successful, even enjoyable mission.  Considering himself as patriotic as the next man, he had learned last year that good agents came in all sizes, colors and nationalities.  _

_Aside from the cold war, UNCLE represented an international blending of talent to make the world a better place.  He really believed that.  Besides, he'd briefly met a very skilled and cunning Russian operative once before and was suitably impressed.  They weren't partnered, but worked on the same mission together with several other agents.  It had been a successful and illuminating experience. If this new agent was anything like the smart blond he'd worked with before, then the __New York__ office would be in good shape.  Just as long as Waverly didn't think he was going to partner the newcomer with him!  Solo worked solo._

-------------------------

Now, after years of fruitful missions and shared days of pain and joy, he loved the guy like they were brothers.  They were as matched as brothers, although their personalities were vastly different.  That was where the astronomically high success rate came from.  Their differing approaches brought new angles and sparking proficiency. In this challenge, it would be fun to see if he could really pull it off.  Not that Illya was better than he was, but he knew it was going to be close. It took him a while, but he slowly cracked the icy barrier around Kuryakin and it had all been worth the trouble:

***

In spite of his misgivings, Illya put his complete attention and considerable wit into the game.  Napoleon had covered his tracks well, but the senior agent was not donning a disguise.  Yet.   With his almost movie-star good looks and natural sophistication – not to mention the injuries, his arm was stiff and awkward, made him move slowly -– Napoleon was a noticeable figure.  He might decide on a disguise later, but Illya would catch him by this afternoon, certainly.

It should be soon, his stomach was growling.  It was lunchtime.  He scanned the area, wondering if his partner could see him.  Napoleon would not respond anymore on the private Channel S they used for personal communications.  That escalated the game.

There had always been a friendly and sometimes not-so-friendly competition between them.  Right from the start.  Solo didn't like to lose even in the smallest things.  Illya didn't either.  Solo had the easily bruised ego and stiff American pride.  Illya had his own issues with conceit and prejudice.  Somehow, they got through it in those early days to establish something incredible between them.  Despite Illya's stubborn defiance:

--------------------------

_Summer 1963_

_Wary, but pleasantly surprised at the success of the partnership, and his growing camaraderie with the American, Illya did not want to appear to surrender too easily.  Russian pride and Solo's ego made him guarded about showing the fondness that came with this strange partnership that was turning into friendship.  He had never really had a friend before, and he very much liked the benefits.  But he would not let Solo know just yet._

_"Do not make the same mistake about Russians as your namesake, Napoleon."_

_"And what is that?"_

_"There is nothing you can do to thaw a Russian's soul."_

_"Really?__  Wanna bet?"_

_Illya forced himself to not automatically respond to the twinkling eyes and the challenging grin of the American.  "No," he considered after a moment._

_Solo laughed.  "Good.  Cause you'd lose that one, Illya.  I'm going to show you some incredible tricks, partner."_

_The Russian snorted.  "You show me? I think not.  Besides, Mr. Waverly did not say we would continue to be partners."_

_"We will, bet on it.  Waverly can't deny our successful collaboration."_

_"I thought you didn't like partners."_

_"Well, I didn't before.  But you're pretty good, Illya.  I'll be able to teach you a lot."_

_"Teach me?"_

_"And we'll have fun. You've never really had much fun in __Russia__, I bet.  Have you ever been to a ball game?"  On the perplexed expression he laughed again. "Welcome to the new world, tovarich."_

-----------------------

The beep of his communicator surprised him and he switched it on.  "I am closing in, my friend," he reported with relish.

"Really, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Mr. Waverly!"

"We are unable to reach Mr. Solo.  Apparently he is not with you?"

"No – he is – out – at the moment."

"I see.  Please contact him as soon as possible.  Li Trask escaped custody while in transit."

Alarm shot through him like fire.  "How?"  It didn't matter the methods, of course.  What mattered is that a man who swore vengeance on them was at large.  "Richardson and Sands had him.  What happened?"

"They were injured, but alive.  Trask escaped before they left Vancouver.  If Mr. Solo feels up to it, or you for that matter, you might want to join the search.  I understand it will be in your best interests to return him to custody."

"Yes, sir."

Rushing along, he tried again to raise his friend on the communicator.  Napoleon!  This is not a game anymore! he promised, fear lending energy and urgency to his strides as he hurried to the next shopping area where Solo was taken by the last cab.

No one in the shops had seen Solo.  Still no answer.  What if Trask already found him? 

**IV**

**"What goes around comes around."**

It was misting, a precursor to rain, when he found the small skiff Solo rented.  It was tied up at an isolated dock outside the city.  Repeated signals on the communicator yielded no response.  Heart in his throat, as he hurriedly approached the small boat he heard the familiar bleep of Napoleon's communicator.  Instinctively knowing that was an ominous turn of events, he rushed over, crouching down to peer into the boat.

On the wood slats of the seats was the shiny reflection of a metal circle, the dark black of a Walther.  Inside the ring was a scrolled sheet of paper. 

With shaking hands, Illya retrieved the articles.  They all seemed smeared with dark coloring; the ring – Napoleon's familiar silver ring with the iolite gem – was still sticky with blood.  Pocketing the prizes, he unfolded the paper, also smeared with blood.  The words, in an untidy scrawl, were clearly legible:

**_catch_****_ us if you can_**

Trembling with regret and dread, Illya collapsed to his knees.  Trask had Napoleon.  They couldn't be that hard to track.  Napoleon was hurt.  If he was still alive.

Trask wanted to kill them.  Why lure them to their deaths?  Why didn't Illya find a body instead of a taunt?  Because it was a ludicrous game.  Trask wasn't done with either of them yet.  He wanted to play a game, just as he had before.  This time the stakes were deadly.  And he was afraid of what he would find at the end of the game.

Weak and sick at heart, he gathered his nerves and called Waverly first.  He hoped his report was concise and neutral.  No need to allow his anguish to seep into a call for help.  Sands and Richardson were still in the area and he called them next.  

After the communications were complete, he sat there, deep in disturbed thought, planning his next move.  His communicator beeped and he answered it.

_"How are you doing so far, Kuryakin?"_

His blood chilled.  "Trask?" he barely whispered.

_"Do you need another clue?"_

"Let me talk to Napoleon."

A low grunt echoed in the stillness of his suspended breath.  _"Illya – don't play the game –"_

Another grunt_._  "Follow the trail, Kuryakin.  But you mustn't tarry.  At nightfall, Solo will die."__

The connection was broken.  Illya strained to think beyond the agony clouding his thoughts.  The trail.  What trail?  With Trask?  Or with Solo?  Or with anything?  Think logically.  Trask, like every madman, had a pattern.  Follow where Trask had been?  His victims?  His crimes?  How far must he backtrack?  The logical point would be where he and Napoleon came into the picture.  At the mineral depository.  He contacted Richardson and suggested they check Trask's previous crime locations.  He was moving blindingly here, but knew there was method in the madness. And only a few hours to win the most important game of his life.  

The mineral depository was closed.  He skidded up to the gates and leaped out.  The electronic fence was locked down.  Before he approached the guard shack, he veered over to the electronic latch.  There was something not right . . . . The silver shaft of a communicator caught the anemic light of the waning sun through the tall trees.  He removed the communicator from the gate.  Red smears of blood were still sticky.  He saw it as the last chance to find his friend.  No more communications.  Would there be any more clues?

Climbing slowly into the car he sighed, weary in spirit, body and mind; desperate and afraid.  He struggled to think past the limitations.  This was far from over yet.  Trask would want him to find Napoleon.  Late, but still find him so Trask could have the opportunity to gloat over the suffering, and then kill him along with his friend.

Turning the car around, he stopped when he saw a sword in the last tree at the end of the driveway.  He leaped out to examine what he guessed was the final clue in the tinted light of the dying twilight.

The blood soaked sword piercing Napoleon's ID -- a yellow, UNCLE card with Solo's name -- to the wood, brought waves of revulsion to him.  Beyond the initial fear, it also brought a clear message of what he intended to do – or had already done – to Solo.   And the final, most crystallizing clue to the macabre game.  Trask wanted to kill them – or kill Napoleon – in the same manner his brother had died.  Perhaps in the same place.

Calling Sands and Richardson, he told them of his guess and raced out to the lonely highway where the battle with the brothers had occurred.  This time he took the low road, the route Trask had taken in his escape.  It was with ill satisfaction he saw a car there on the shoulder of the road.

Quietly exiting his car, he drew his Walther and stealthily coursed through the woods.  A fire burned nearby.  He closed in on the light and smoke.  From a distance he saw his battered, bleeding partner, awkwardly trussed, hands tied behind a tree.  Trask held a ninja-styled long, curved sword in his right hand.  With his left hand, he clutched a handful of Solo's hair, talking face to face with the wounded agent.

Illya's only prayer of saving his partner was the element of surprise.  At this angle, he could shoot Trask, but the likelihood of hitting Napoleon was too great.  The orchestration was not lost on the Russian.  Trask planned this down to the last detail.  He hoped to lure Illya out in the open and kill both UNCLE operatives just as Wu had been killed.

Making his way to the side, he hoped to improve the angle.  The sun had set.  He was out of time.  He moved quickly and as quietly as possible, but he could not sacrifice speed for stealth.  Trask was armed and ready to murder his friend.

Momentarily, Trask stepped back, the sword swinging high.  Illya was not prepared, but it would have to do.  Before the blade came down, he fired, breathing again when Trask's body flew to the ground.  

"Napoleon!"

It was close, but apparently, he had not hit his partner.  Why wasn't Napoleon moving?  Kuryakin scurried down slope, wary of Trask, but also unable to stop watching his all too still friend.  Finally, he drew close enough to see Napoleon's chest moving.  Suddenly Trask jolted, leaning up and thrusting out the sword, plunging the blade into Solo.

Illya fired as he ran, emptying the clip into Trask's limp body.  

"NO!"

Strangled with grief, he skidded to a halt next to the tree, frozen with agony.  The sword had stabbed through Napoleon and secured itself to the tree, just as Illya had killed Wu.  The angle was to the side, on Napoleon's right and bleeding profusely.  Not instantly fatal at least, but terrible.

"Napoleon."  He could hardly whisper the name, hardly think or move.

Solo's eyes flickered; he breathed in, and shifted slightly.  The blade caught him and he cried out in pain.

"Don't move," Illya whispered, taking Solo's weight against him.  "I have to pull the sword out of the tree, Napoleon."  He would have to be careful to not draw it all the way out.  Unstopped by the blade, the blood would flow unchecked and Solo might bleed to death before help could arrive.  Moving Solo off the tree was imperative because the body weight was tearing against the blade and ripping Solo apart inside.  "Just relax."

Gently he eased the blade out fractionally, leaning tightly against his partner to minimize Solo's movement.  It had to be agony to have the blade excruciatingly sliding slowly along ribs or internal organs, but Illya could not risk the increased damage that might occur by pulling it quickly.  

The blade was deeply imbedded and stuck rigidly in the wood.  Leaning tightly against his friend, Kuryakin yanked, Solo gasped and dropped into his arms.  His shoulder gave out and Solo slipped, almost hitting the ground, but Illya caught him and eased him to the dirt.  Folding down beside his friend, he called for help. 

Cold and trembling, Solo gritted his teeth.  Raspily, he struggled to speak.  "You – won-- game."

"Yes," Kuryakin swallowed hard.  Solo's eyes did not focus.  He placed his hands around the sword to keep the blood flow down.  "Don't let me lose now."

Solo's eyes narrowed in confusion.  Trying to respond, his eyes rolled back and he slipped to unconsciousness.

EPILOGUE 

He was dreaming.  He knew it because everything seemed a little fuzzy and out of place.  He had lived through this scene before, but it was clear and bright then, the colors real.  Everything now was muted and eyed with the knowledge that it was history:

--------------------------

_spring__ 1963_

_Waverly did not seem to pay any attention to them, but was focused on the pipe.  "I thought Mr. Kuryakin's skills could keep you from accruing more hospital bills, Mr. Solo.  After this mission I'm not so sure."_

_Patting Kuryakin on the arm, a slight ripple of a wince came and left quickly from his expression.  Winking, Solo made an exaggerated aspect, then cleared his throat.  "You have to admit, sir, that the hospital bills were much better this time."_

_Kuryakin held his breath.  Was this when Waverly would reprimand him?  How could Solo joke about the injury caused by the inexperienced Russian?_

_"Humph."  Smoke trailed from the pipe.  "I shall expect you, Mr. Kuryakin, to help Mr. Solo stay out of trouble."  He was nearly obscured now by the strong smoke.  "Especially, since Mr. Milton has recommended him Section Two Number Two and is your superior as second in command of Enforcement section."_

_Nearly gasping, Illya disguised it as a slight cough, but Solo caught the slip and smiled even more._

_"You may fill him in on his duties, Mr. Solo."  He shuffled some papers.  "You're not being paid to stand in my office.  That will be all, gentlemen."_

_"Yes, sir!"__ Kuryakin snapped and rushed out, Solo following at a more leisurely gait. _

_In the corridor Kuryakin stopped, shaking his head.  His confusion seemed to amuse Solo even more, who surrendered a gentle laugh._

_"I don't understand.  Why isn't he angry with me?  Why is he rewarding me?"_

_Puzzlement momentarily shaded Solo's sparkling eyes.  "Rewarding you?"_

_"I've just been partnered with the Number Two Enforcement Agent!"_

_Solo laughed so hard he winced, holding his left side.  "Maybe you ARE being punished."  Noticing Illya did not appreciate the joke he took Illya's arm and led him down the corridor.  "Your report, and mine, was -- uh -- modified.  Slightly."_

_Kuryakin stopped, scandalized.  In his old country that could mean any number of unpleasant things.  "What do you mean?"_

_With a sigh Solo an arm around his shoulder and continued walking.   "No need for Waverly to know all the details of our assignment.  Besides, things were pretty confusing and --"_

_Sucking in a nearly escaping yelp Kuryakin stopped and leaned closer.  "You lied?"_

_Snagging Kuryakin's jacket sleeve Solo pulled the shorter man into an elevator and punched a button.  "I glossed over a few things.  Look, you're not going to get all nit-picky about this, are you?  Waverly would have been mad at both of us if he knew what really happened.  This way he just chalks it up to another blunder at gallantry on my part and you have a clean slate."  He shrugged, the casualness marred by the wince at the pain.  "Besides, I'm your boss, the Number Two Enforcement Officer, I can do that kind of thing."  He frowned.  "Sort of."  His eyes narrowed.  "But I better not see you doing it."  The full Solo smile was back.  "At least not without my permission."_

_The lift stopped and they emerged on the Section Two floor.  Solo led them to an office, formerly occupied by __Milton__, supposedly, since it was larger and more comfortably furnished than the one formerly occupied by Solo.  The American eased himself onto the plush leather sofa.  Kuryakin paced._

_"What happened to Richards?"_

_Rubbing a hand over his eyes, the first sign of fatigue and strain at his act against the pain filtered through Napoleon's facade.__  Solo sighed and stared at his hand as he brushed the crease in his trousers.  "He couldn't take the pressure anymore and took a retirement from UNCLE."  A smirk flickered on his lips.  "No coup.  No poison in his coffee.  I came by the office legally."_

_Illya felt the blush redden his face and he turned away to inspect the desk.  "So you were aware of the rumors."_

_"I **AM** a spy, remember?"_

_Kuryakin surrendered a nod of agreement. "And a good one, too."_

_Clicking his tongue, Solo's attitude was wry.  "Careful, Mr. K, I might get an inflated ego with all that praise flying my direction.  You're just too effusive," he teased with glittering eyes._

_Unable to help himself, Illya grinned and walked over to have a seat on the sofa.  "You are aware of what some of the other agents say about you?  The arrogance, the ruthlessness, the selfishness --"_

_"All right!"__ Solo halted with a scowl.  "Of course I know what they say behind my back. Spy, remember?"_

_"Then why do you continue the deception?  Occasionally you display some of those unflattering traits, but you are an amazing professional with an incredible capacity for survival and cunning."_

_Solo__ actually blushed and his face faltered from amusement to a touching softness.  He cleared his throat.  "How do you know it's a deception," he quietly queried. "Maybe you've never seen the real me."_

_Illya would have none of it.  "I have worked with you under duress."  His voice deepened.  "Through my mistake you were injured, yet you not only forgave me, you covered up for me.  In other men – in the __Soviet Union__ – the misdirection would be construed as suspicious.  Rife with ulterior motives.  You are too honest.  Too much of an American. I know you are not putting up a façade to me. I don't understand it, but you fabricate and encourage misleading appearances about yourself. And you are generous and ridiculously loyal to me.  Why?"  _

_Solo tapped his knee.  "Why do you deceive others about yourself?  Why do you like to disguise your incredible devotion and caring?"_

_The piercing brown eyes were too honest and Kuryakin stared at the wall, refusing to answer._

_"Ah, two vulnerable spies who have secrets."__  The smile was obvious in the wryly-amused tone.  "Two loners who have been thrown together."  _

_"You are far from a loner.  You are gregarious and much too effusive."  He cast a sideways glance.  "Except when you are being deviously guarded for your own ends."_

_A quiet laugh was almost a sigh.  "We seem to have a lot in common.  I think we'll make a pretty good team."  _

_The light humor in Solo's eyes made him smile.  "Maybe we will."  _

_Napoleon critically studied the blond man. "You've probably never had a hot dog, am I right?" he shook his head in mock despair.  _

_With a shake of his blond hair, Illya confirmed the guess, puzzled._

_"Where are you staying?"_

_"I haven't had time to look --"_

_"There's a nice one-bedroom place available in my building.  Good location, not far from work.  On the __East river__."___

_"I --"_

_"No need to thank me, Illya."_

_"I-- uh -- suppose not."_

_In a terrible Humphrey Bogart impression, Solo said, "I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship."_

_Kuryakin shook his head, not sure what he had gotten himself into, but certain it would never be dull having Solo as a partner._

-------------------------

"Hey, tovarich."

Kuryakin instantly started awake, his eyes flying open to see his partner looking at him with blurry brown eyes dulled from medication.

"How are you?" Illya asked with concern, leaning forward out of his chair.

Another hospital vigil.  Another close call.  Another slow recovery.  Some things in life were destined to be repeated -- both good and bad.

"Sore."

"That's what happens when you play dangerous games, Mr. Solo."  He scooted the chair closer.  "You're very lucky.  Trask's sword sliced into your side and caught in some ribs.  No permanent damage."

Napoleon nodded tiredly.  "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Trask?"

"Dead.  I made sure of that."

"Knew you would.  No one I'd rather have avenging me."  He struggled to reach out and pat Illya's arm.  "Thanks for saving me."

Illya held onto his hand.  "Now that we know who the better agent is," he reprimanded, his tone lighter but rippling with emotion, "we will never need to try that competition again."

Solo shook his head.  "You think I'm giving up that easily?"

"Napoleon –"

Smirking, the American surrendered.  "Even though it was a disqualified competition because of Trask's interference, we don't have to do that again.   I'm not sure who would win in a fair test, but I've always known who's the best partner."

Somewhat mollified, Kuryakin gave a nod.  He could say the same, although, at times like this, wondered why he considered this foolhardy and egotistical man his closest friend.  Because beyond the arrogance and limitless passion for danger, he was the only man who offered his wholehearted trust and allegiance to Illya.  Completely, without reserve, Solo would do anything for him -- had done too many things for him.

Caught in their own strange game of competition, they seemed to try and outdo each other in heroics and ridiculous hazards constantly in their harrowing careers.  As long as they both kept, winning-- kept each other alive -- he could handle any game.  

THE END 


End file.
